Mercury. My eldest. My pride and joy.  
Mothers aren’t supposed to outlive their children, that’s not how it works.  
Coarse, saggy, and hollow; now a shell of your past glory, only jewels of light shining through. 
As ever, you refuse to let someone get the better of you. Even on your deathbed.  
You're cold. Lights are dimming, slowly spinning. Your complexion is dulling, maturing, I'm losing You. Why aren’t my rays affecting you? 
No. You can’t leave me. Not my soon, not my Mercury. Oh, dearest child. 
It’s okay. Stop fighting, turn your lights off now. Mommy's got you.  
Rest. 

… 

As a mother, I feel as though I’ve been done an injustice. As though my child has been so mercilessly snatched from me, as though a ticking clock had struck the final hour and our time together ran out. 
But as your mother, the mother to my darling Mercury, I feel bittersweet. Regret sure is a cruel mistress and what a blessing it is that I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting her. What a blessing you are. 
Were.  
Are.  
I see you in clear ocean waters, waves lapping and reflecting tropical shades of the sunset,  
I hear you in the morning melodies of a cluster of sparrows, their voices soothing my internal struggles to cope,  
I smell you in farmers markets in the spring, explosions of energy and vibrancy invading my senses as you once did,  
I feel you in the warmth of the fireplace, comforted by the ghosts of your embrace,  
I close my eyes, I inhale, and there you are. 
My rock. My world. The brightest soul in the Milky Way.  
Mercury.  
The one that got away.